


Man

by ladyofreylo



Series: Kinky Stories [8]
Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Bondage, DDLG, Dark, Dark Rey, Darkfic, Dom/sub, F/M, Games, Hair Pulling, Happily Ever After, Happy Ending, Kink, Kinky fic, Obsession, Oral Sex, Orgasm Denial, POV First Person, PWP, Porn with barest of plot, Rage, Reylo - Freeform, Romance, Sex, Smut, Spanking, Whoa, dubcon, kylo is dom, kylo is sub, rey is domme, rey is sub, scenes, switch - Freeform, three sex scenes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-30
Updated: 2020-06-30
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:02:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24988765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyofreylo/pseuds/ladyofreylo
Summary: Rey plays Domme to Kylo's sub for an article she's writing.  He is so delicious that she becomes obsessed with the idea of having him full time.   He is reluctant but willing to be in one more scene if she will be his sub.  A game of cat-and-mouse ensues...
Relationships: Rey/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren
Series: Kinky Stories [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1756246
Comments: 34
Kudos: 123





	Man

**Author's Note:**

> CW: This is a darker fic than I normally write. I write about Rey's thoughts and feelings having to do Kylo and the scenes. Pining, angst, rage sex, spanking, and bondage. Still has a happy ending, though.  
> No pregnancy or babies.  
> Thanks to MTMagni for the help with the kinky shit.

I have him here, this man, this toy. Gwen set it up for me—a gift to help a struggling writer out.

“You want to write this article? You need to do it.” That’s what she told me.

<>

I find myself standing in front of this man, wearing black leggings and a bra, heels, makeup, and an attitude. The man kneels at my demand. Gwen has worked out the scene details to help me.

“Sensation domination. You’ll feel what it’s like to be in charge.” Gwen says those words to me when we set this thing up.

 _Moonlight_ is her organization and it caters to those who enjoy a BDSM lifestyle—either in the bedroom or full time. Gwen wants me to write an article from the perspective of a woman who is not in this world. She’s publishing an online feminist magazine, which is a side gig apart from her other duties as an editor for Chandrila publishing house. She offers to pay more than I get for other freelance writing jobs. She’s my editor and a friend who would like to see me be able to write full time. She lobs work my way whenever possible.

<>

In this instance, she gives me her prize stallion to play a scene with, saying I can trust him, and that I can write about the encounter.

He is not hers, though, she says. He has no permanent partner.

And here he kneels in front of me. And here I stand in the room, knowing he is mine.

“His only hard limits,” Gwen tells me, “are shitting and peeing on people or vice versa. He’s open to most other things. Play at will, darling. Take notes. He will be blindfolded the whole time, if you so desire.”

I ask about sex.

Gwen reiterates this man’s hard limits. Sex is in fact on the table, apparently, if I want it. He is not shy, she says, and he likes sex.

“His name is Kylo. Call him whatever you like, though. Servant, slave, little, kitten, baby, toy, whatever.”

<>

He is indeed a prize stallion, obviously tall, muscular, built, shirtless. His dark hair waves around his ears. He has a small goatee and mustache. And I am allowed to touch him.

I do. I cannot help myself. I run my hands through his thick hair and it slips between my fingers like silk. I turn his face upward and touch his soft facial hair. I run my fingers across his full lips. I find myself excited to think about what I can make him do.

An interesting prospect. I own him. I am not lying on my back, responding to his kisses, feeling his hands on me. I touch him and he moves not a muscle.

He is my doll. My living doll.

I realize that I don’t want to write this down. I just want to feel it. I want to experience the thrill of his big body doing exactly what I say. Letting me do to him.

I want him naked. I want to touch him everywhere.

“Man,” I say. “Remove your blindfold.”

“Yes… uh. How shall I address you?” he asks in a deep, rich voice.

“Miss is fine,” I say. I’m probably being too nice and respectful. I’m new to this and have no real idea what I’m doing.

“Yes, Miss,” he replies and pulls the blindfold off. He keeps his eyes lowered. He doesn’t move.

It’s an amazing feeling, a bit unnerving, too. I’m used to men taking the lead. I’m used to them calling the shots. I’m used to reacting to whatever they decide.

Now here I am deciding while he waits. I should write this down. But I don’t want to interrupt this heady vibe, like a tickle of champagne in my belly. I want to touch him and make him mine. I want.

He is beautiful without the blindfold, though I can’t see the color of his eyes. I cup his chin and turn his face upward again.

I am enchanted as he looks straight into my eyes.

His hair is so dark, his skin pale, and his eyes, clear, intelligent, light brown with hints of green, whiskey-in-a-glass brown. He gazes at me. He gazes deeply at me.

He tries to keep his face impassive and can’t. His lips give him away. They move upward slightly, parting at the sight of me.

I sit in front of him, crossing my legs. “Are you tired of sitting, Man?”

“Yes, Miss.” He looks down again. His massive hands are on his thighs. He kneels on his big bare feet.

“Stand,” I say. “Tell me what you see when you look at me. What’s your reaction?”

He stands. He’s taller than I thought, way taller than I am. He looks down at me and his eyes slide away. He’s not supposed to look directly at me unless I tell him to.

“You may look,” I say.

“Yes, Miss.” He gazes at my face.

“Tell me what you see.”

“You are beautiful.” The words burst out of him. I think they were a canned submissive response, but his eyes look hungry. “I see your hazel eyes, your tanned freckled nose, and soft pink lips. Your hair is brown and looks shiny and smooth.”

“Thank you, Man,” I say, though I don’t have to thank him. He’s my slave. I’m enchanted by him as he stares at me. I stare back into his face.

“Strip,” I say, softly. I want to see him.

He unbuckles his belt, unzips and drops the pants. He steps out of them and picks them up, places them over a chair. His underwear follows.

His dick is just beginning to come alive. I don’t know what I want to do first. There’s so much—his face, chest, tight ass, long muscular legs, thick cock thrusting upward. I want to do everything to him.

“Sit,” I say.

He begins to fold himself onto the floor.

“No, on the edge of the bed.”

He complies. I walk up to him and touch his hair, running my fingers through it. It’s so slippery. I lose myself in it and bend down a little to smell his spicy shampoo. My breasts are in his face, but he does nothing about it.

Usually, a man would touch me by now, grip my ass, pull me close, growl, rip off my bra, suck my nipples. He does none of those things. He allows…

No, there is no allowing on his end. I allow him. Not the other way around. I don’t allow him to touch me, and he leaves his hands down on his thighs.

I turn his face upward and he looks in my eyes.

“Kiss,” I say. I wish to feel his lips on mine, his mustache on my face.

I bend down and press my lips to his. I take the lead and move my mouth on his soft one. His lips are pillowy, and I can barely cover them with mine. His mustache prickles as I move my lips to find an angle I like. It’s a heady sensation of warmth, tickles, and softness against my mouth. I want more. I crave him.

I tease his lips open and search for his tongue. His tongue meets mine and he tastes of mint and something alive, sweet, fresh, warm. I crawl on his lap to deepen the kiss and push my tongue deep into his mouth. He meets me and we tangle, thrusting tongues together.

I kiss his mustache and gnaw on his lips. I pepper his face, nuzzle his beard, lick my way across his cheek to find an ear. I am hungry. 

I feel his dick jump under my thighs.

He is naked and I am not.

Do I devour him or must I make him eat me? Choices.

All mine.

I am ravenous.

I am.

I jump off him and tear at him, biting his shoulders, licking his flat nipples, drawing deep breaths from him. I might not satisfy him, who knows? Who cares?

He is my feast. I work my way downward. He can’t touch me. He knows better than to try but his hands raise into the air, searching for something to touch and finding nothing. He drops them back to his sides with a hitch in his breathing.

I take him in my mouth. I must taste him for myself, for my own pleasure. I let the saltiness of his sweat and his musky balls fill everything lacking in me. I save the dick for last. So velvet smooth, so long and hard, the head fitting in my mouth, the shaft firm against my teeth. My tongue licks his length, while I listen to his bitten-off groans.

He has no idea whether he is allowed to moan. No idea if he can come. He must simply exist under my tongue and wait.

If he begs, he may be punished.

I stop and look at him.

“Man, you may not come in my mouth. You may not ask for anything. You may not touch me unless I tell you to. You may not make any noises under any circumstances.”

“Yes, Miss.” He does not look at me. He keeps his hands to his sides. I feel him, though. I feel his wish for more.

I may yet let him come. If he is good.

I want him to be good to me. I decide to stay dressed and make him service me that way for the moment.

I put my leg up next to him and pull my leggings tight. “Man, rub me through the fabric. Use your thumb.”

He does so, gently. He circles and then slides his thumb up and down. He can’t tell where it is and he’s guessing. I’m getting hot, but I know I can’t come this way. It’s not what I want. It juices me up a bit, but he misses and there’s not enough contact for my taste.

I smack his hand away. “You miss too much,” I say.

“I’m sorry, Miss.”

I strip. Fuck this shit, I’m going to make him look.

I lie down. “Man, you need to look closely. Find it, touch it with your finger, then lick it.” I open my legs.

He rolls over and takes a look. He touches my clit immediately. He does know, it was just the fabric in the way.

I pull his head down and he flicks it with his tongue.

“How do I taste, Man?”

“Like hot salted caramel, Miss,” he replies immediately.

I smack his hand. “Is that a canned reply, Man? Do you say that to your Mistresses?”

“No, Miss. It’s just you.”

“Eat me out until I come. Don’t tease, don’t edge. Just do it.”

“Yes, Miss.”

And he makes his tongue flat and licks stripes up my cunt over and over, ending with a small flick on my clit. Then he sucks my clit into his mouth.

I enjoy his tongue, but I am not satisfied with his performance. He does not seem to be into it enough; it feels mechanical. I want him to savor me like a feast.

“Find something different to do,” I say. “I don’t feel it.”

He stops. He rolls on his back and gently nudges me onto his face. I ride him and set the pace. His tongue and lips are just my vibrator and I work him, smearing myself into his mouth. I hold the headboard for support and find spots that I like. He doesn’t touch me except for his lips on my cunt.

“Just my clit,” I moan. “Just that.” I am so close, if he will lick me just there, just right, I will go over the edge.

He grips my hips in his huge hands. Not supposed to touch. He holds me up above his face, so I’m not riding him anymore. He has taken over. 

He teases. He’s not supposed to tease, but it’s what I need. A featherlight touch of his tongue. A barely-there whisper of sensation. I’m in limbo. I’m screaming. “Do it,” I pant at him. And he does. He sucks it into his mouth, and I come, hard.

I fall onto my side, writhing with aftershocks. I shouldn’t have let him take the lead, but I couldn’t help it. At that moment, he knows my body and its needs better than I do.

I find that disturbing. Most men are not like that at all, fumbling around down there, killing my fucking vibe.

“Face down, Man,” I state. I am not willing to let him know how good he was.

“Yes, Miss.” He complies.

I turn his face away from me. I find my small feather duster. I run it over his muscular back, his arms, his tight ass, and his legs. I sit on the back of his legs with my sticky cunt and pull up one long leg. I tease the feathers between his toes, and he yelps involuntarily. I pull up his other leg and feel his muscles clench as he waits for me to torment him.

I love that. I love it. He is at my mercy completely. Waiting to see if I will tease him again.

He sucks in a breath, still waiting.

I laugh. “Man, you’re mine to do with what I will. You’re submissive to me, completely. I have you in my power. Man, what are you going to do? Shall I tickle you again? You may answer.”

“Yes, Miss.”

I run the feathers lightly between his toes while he writhes and tries to stop himself. While he bite his lips and tries to stop the noises. He can’t stop.

I leap off him. “Punishment for my Man. You can’t stop making noises, can you? When I said not to.” I pause. “How many swats for my Man? Answer.”

“Ten, Miss.”

“With what?”

“I don’t know, Miss.”

I smack his ass. “Choose.”

He gulps a little. “My belt.”

I’m amazed. “That’s too harsh for my sweet Man. You’re not that bad.”

“No, Miss.”

“But you chose.” I pull the belt out of his pants and double it up. I wonder if I can do this to him. I feel kind of bad about it.

I snap the belt to get a feel for it. I’m still not sure I can do this for real. I guess I don’t have to hit him hard, just ten light strokes would stimulate his skin. I don’t wish to hurt him, even though he may expect me to—he may want me to. It’s enough to have the power to make him wait and wonder.

It’s a game we play. It’s a sensation he’s looking for and a power I enjoy.

I crawl up and kneel beside him.

“Arms up, Man. Don’t move.”

He puts his arms above his head.

I whack him lightly with the belt, enough to make some noise but not enough to actually cut him. I make him count for me.

By the number ten, his tight ass has turned a nice shade of pink. I rub it and feel the warmth. I love the feel of his muscles under my hands. I need to have him above me, pumping into me and me grabbing his ass to pull him tighter.

“Fuck me, Man,” I say. I reach over and grab a condom for him.

I lie on my back while he rises above me and pushes into me slowly. No noise, just a steady push and hard breathing, air rushing through his gritted teeth. I watch his taut face. I am stretched with each movement, it’s almost painful to take the whole of him. He notices my reaction and goes slowly. I wrap my legs around him and put my hands on his ass. He surges forward and sets a punishing pace. My breast bounce wildly. He holds the headboard with a hand to brace himself as he plunders me.

I don’t stop him. It’s incredible. He’s clearly out of his mind with need, and I’m giving him this gift of a self-directed orgasm. He pounds into me harder for a few moments. Then slows. He’s a good Man, this one. He knows he can’t just come like that.

He looks at me with a question in his eyes. 

“Make me come, Man,” I say.

“Yes, Miss,” he pants.

He pulls out immediately and surges downward to suck my cunt into his mouth. He finds my clit and teases again, just out of reach of what I need. I would stop him and yell at him and punish him again, but it’s just so good to squirm under him and let him drive me crazy. I can’t stop him even as he places his big hands under my ass to make me his feast for real this time.

I realize that I like it when he takes over a little, just a little. When he has figured out what I like by testing and trying and watching. He is present with me. He knows.

I am close. I feel it there, just right there, on the edge of being there…

He stops. 

“No, Man,” I cry, but he ignores me.

I am out of control.

He flips me over on my stomach, hitches my hips into the air, and pushes my face into the bed with a big hand.

I am ready for this. I need to lose control to find that satisfaction that he can give me.

He dives in again, ramming into me, looking for a good angle.

I cry out when he finds it. “This, Man, this,” I tell him, offering up my hips.

He slides a hand between my legs and finds my clit. He teases while I yell at him to do it harder.

Then, in an instant, he gives me the touch I crave.

And I fly. He pounds the living shit out of me. I hear myself scream as satisfaction roars through my body.

He doesn’t stop until he comes, muffling his groans. I lose myself listening, feeling his strength. I can sense his aftershocks and I listen to his deep breaths.

I am spent, supine, lying on my stomach.

He pulls out, discards his condom. He covers me up with a blanket and strokes my hair once. As if I’m the one who needs the after care. I’m supposed to give it to him. But he seems not to need it.

Without a word, he puts his clothes back on, and exits the room.

<>

I sleep. _Moonlight_ allows its guests to stay in the small apartments overnight.

I wake and begin notes for the article.

I wish to see him again. Man. Kylo. I never called him that.

It turns out Gwen won’t allow me to see him again—or contact him. She protects her people.

I understand and write my article, send it to her for feedback.

She texts me wide eye emojis. _Want to join us?_

Yes, if I can see him again. He bothers my dreams at night. Dark-haired and large, he drifts in and takes me.

<>

It’s all so normal. I keep thinking there’s a secret code or a something. I have visions of masked people wandering naked through rooms with others doing unspeakable acts in corners.

Instead, it’s a mixer at a bar, with music, a bartender, snacks, and a group of everyday people, chit-chatting. Gwen shepherds me around, introducing me to small clusters of people. She calls me Kira. She tells me not to give my real name. She tells me hers is Phasma.

I am looking for Man, for Kylo. I can’t help myself. I want to ask Gwen, but I fear it is a question that won’t be well received.

There’s a live-and-let-live vibe to this organization. A feeling of don’t ask, don’t tell—it’s a lightweight social club that happens to practice all manner of kink scenes. Sometimes. Gwen says other times, it’s simply a social club that allows like-minded folks to meet each other and pair off, like a dating service. I realize that’s what I want from Kylo, in addition to another scene. I want to see him again and look into his eyes—hold hands and see him smile.

I’m not sure I’d like to pair off with anyone here, though Gwen pushes me toward a few straight guys. They look fine to me, but I find myself bored with their significant looks and wishful faces. They have little to interest me.

Am I a Domme, a sub or a switch? Gwen would like me to fill out a Google form.

I look over the questions and fill them out. Do I want to fill them out as though I was with Kylo? I don’t know, so I do. Would I like to be a brat? Do I want to be tied up? Would I enjoy physical pain? On a scale of 1-5, with 5 being the highest, how much physical pain would I enjoy? How much would I like to give?

There are no questions about whether I enjoy tall, dark-haired men with plush lips. I wish there were, then I could get on with my life. My preference is him. I can almost smell his clean scent, the hint of soap and mint.

People drift by. Gwen checks on me. She reads the form and declares me a switch with sub tendencies.

“Even after the article?” I ask.

“You let him take over. You said you craved it.”

Now is the time. “Where is he?”

Gwen shrugs. “No idea. I don’t keep tabs on Kylo.”

“I want another scene,” I say.

She looks me up and down. “I will ask him. He may agree, but he’s strict about his scenes and partners. He was doing me a favor.”

“He was attracted to me, Gwen. I know he was.”

“Yes. He saw your photo. I showed him as a courtesy in case he wanted to pull sex out of the scene.” She pauses. “But he agreed, rather uncharacteristically. He’s not always an easy scene partner, though he is an ethical one.”

I don’t know what to make of that.

“He’s picky, Rey. He won’t usually fuck people or allow any nudity.”

I feel my blush rise and my mouth drop open.

“Yeah,” she says. “Unusual. You caught his attention.”

“Good or bad?”

“He’s a good man at base. Intense. Closed. Hard. Emotional. Some say he’s downright scary.”

“Who is he? What does he do for a living?”

“None of our business. He shares little and we don’t ask. Or at least I don’t. Learned that the hard way.”

“He asked for a scene with me.” Gwen gets a faraway look. “I’m not usually a switch, but he asked nicely. I was intrigued and agreed. We played. He got me on asking questions about him. Whew.” She shakes her head. “I didn’t sit comfortably for a week, I swear.”

“What did he do?”

She laughs. “Came at me with a variety of implements—all based on technicalities. I really should have stopped it with my safe word, but I was intrigued by how far he would go. He took me to my limit.”

I stare at her. I cannot reconcile this story with the man I met.

“No worries. We talked later and he was just playing—though he requested privacy. The scene was a lesson. I respect that.”

I look away. The thought of him sleeping with Gwen makes me feel something weird. It is a ridiculous reaction. She can sleep with whomever she chooses.

“Rey, you know I like girls, right?” She reads me well. “I didn’t have sex with him.”

“What is the point of a scene if not to get off?”

She laughs. “I got off, just not with Kylo.” Then she looks at me. “He will want you, though, as he did before.”

I think I’m so smart, not mentioning orgasms and focusing instead on the power exchange and my shifting perceptions.

She smiles at me. “He wanted you when he saw your photo. If it went well, he will want you again. Do you want to play with him?”

I breathe. “Yes.” It comes out a whisper.

Gwen pats my hand. “I will speak to him, if I can reach him.”

<>

I find myself hesitant about joining _Moonlight_. If it’s the only way I can play with this man again, I will do it, but I don’t want to play with anyone else.

I call Gwen and we set up a time to talk about it further. She pries my hesitancy out of me over the phone.

“I want to see him again,” I say. “That’s the bottom line.”

She sighs. “I will see if we can work it out, but don’t hold your breath. If he knows you really want him, he’ll likely run. That’s just how he is.”

We agree to meet at Jordan’s, an after-work spot with a nice atmosphere.

When I arrive, the bar is almost empty; the after-work crowd hasn’t arrived. I sit at the bar, nursing a gin and tonic and wait for Gwen.

She swoops in and grabs a seat. She orders the same drink and settles in.

“Bad news,” she says immediately. “Kylo wants to leave _Moonlight_. He says he isn’t interested in any more scenes.” She takes a sip of her drink and looks at me with concern.

I’m disappointed. It was a one-time thing for me, but the effects have lingered. This man. This is the man I want.

“Would you like to play with someone else?” Gwen touches my arm lightly. “There are plenty of others in _Moonlight_. Lots you haven’t met. If you want to explore it further…”

I shake my head. “It’s not really about _Moonlight_. I want to explore the man I met.”

Gwen cocks her head to one side. “Rey, darling, it’s a fantasy. The scenes aren’t real. Don’t get this mixed up as though it was real life.”

“What do you mean?”

She taps a finger on the bar. “He wouldn’t be what he was in that room. If it’s sex you want, that’s one thing. If it’s a relationship, that’s an entirely different idea. He’s not who you think.”

I consider that idea. “Do you know him?”

“Somewhat,” Gwen answers. “I meet everyone and speak with them.” She sips her drink. “Anyway, don’t join _Moonlight_ to get to Kylo. Join it because you want to explore this lifestyle.”

If I am honest with myself, which I sometimes am, I don’t want to join _Moonlight_. I want to meet Kylo. I want to see what else I’m hungry for and feed off the energy he provides.

“Shit,” I say. 

“It’s not real,” Gwen says. “Let it go.”

And so, I do.

<>

Gwen texts me the next day. _He didn’t run._ _He will do it._

 _I thought he was leaving Moonlight,_ I text back.

_He is. But he will do one last time with you. For you._

I send a heart emoji.

 _It is his scene_ , Gwen writes. _You will sub. Be careful, don’t lose your heart_.

Through Gwen, I set up my hard limits and safe word. Kylo refuses to contact me.

Then I go back to the same apartment building, with a sense of excitement and urgency. I will touch him again. I will be his again.

And I meet Gwen in the women’s ante room. She hands me a robe, a collar, and a blindfold.

“Naked,” she says, but for the collar and the blindfold.

I shiver and undress. I put the robe on and fasten the collar on. It is red with a small heart hanging from the front. I carry the blindfold.

“Put it on when you get into the room,” Gwen says.

“Kneel?”

“Always kneel.”

I do as I’m told and wait.

And wait.

I hear the door open and footsteps. A big hand touches my head and strokes my hair. It is him.

Kylo says nothing but takes my collar and lifts me to my feet. He uses it to nudge me to the bed and I fall forward a little when my legs hit the edge.

With a hand on my back, he pushes me down all the way. I’m uncomfortably placed half on and half off the bed.

He leaves me there.

He returns and I hear the slick sound of oil rubbing between hands. His big hands.

He rubs oil into my skin, working it in with long strokes. I realize I’m getting a massage and I begin to relax under his hands.

I moan. He slaps my bottom. He is telling me the rules without speaking. I want him to speak but he doesn’t.

After a time, he begins to brush my back with something soft. The tiny feather duster, his hair, I can’t tell. It is relaxing, though I am still half on and half off the bed. My calves are beginning to suffer. I want to ask if I can move.

I clear my throat to ask. He stops. “What do I call you?” I whisper.

“Man.”

“May I move, Man?”

“No, Kitten, you may not.”

Kylo runs the feathers everywhere. He tickles the backs of my knees, my feet, between my legs. I bite back a noise halfway between pain and pleasure, though I’m not quite successful at muffling it, and he smacks me again, harder.

“No noise, Kitten. No talking, no moaning, no noise at all.” His broad hand stings me on each cheek. I almost muffle my small cry. How do I stop the noise when he creates the noise?

Again, I am smacked, harder. I swallow the moan.

“You didn’t use the belt on me, Kitten. Not really. But I will use it on you, if you can’t do as I say. Say you understand, Kitten.”

I nod.

“Good girl. You’re learning.”

He pulls me upward using the collar and rolls me over at the same time.

I’m nervous and jumpy.

He arranges my limbs, arms upward, heels together, and knees outward. I clench. He will eat me out, perhaps.

He doesn’t kiss me, but runs his face, his soft beard, his full lips against my face, my neck. I suck in another moan and he slaps my thigh.

It stings, and I can’t hold back a little cry. He slaps me again. I bite it back. I’m having trouble with his control over me.

He makes his way downward to my breasts, slipping his face over each peak to tease with his beard. Then he suckles me, his warm mouth fastened there, his beard pricking my skin, his sharp teeth biting gently.

I forget and cry out loud. I grab his head. He pulls his mouth away and blows on my nipples.

I am keening and raking his hair. I can’t help it. I must touch him.

He rolls me over and applies his hand to my ass, as hard as he can. I jump and muffle my noise in the pillow. He rubs my burning skin.

“Oh, bad kitten. You’re going to have to learn faster than that,” he whispers next to my ear.

Then he hitches up my hips, spreads my legs, and eats me from behind. I can’t hold in the cries of joy at feeling his lips buried between my legs, seeking out the center of my desire.

He swats me, keeping his tongue on my clit. The pain and pleasure mix. I rear up and fall on my back. He follows and sucks my clit into his mouth while I writhe and bite my lips under his tongue. The wave rises and is about to crest. He pulls his mouth away and nibbles down my leg.

I’m not in control of the desperate noise I make when he leaves me on the edge. I put my fingers between my legs to stop the ache. He pulls my hands away and yanks me over his lap. I am rewarded with a fiery spanking.

I fight. I don’t use the safe word because I’m not at my limit. I’m just fucking angry.

He dodges my elbows and blows and manages to land more hot spanks on me. His leg holds my scissoring limbs down, his hand pins my two wandering fists against the small of my back. I’m locked down. Under his control.

He doesn’t move. I wiggle. He clamps harder.

He takes his time, running a hand over my red ass. I’m know I can’t cry out or move. I must surrender and work through my emotions, the anger, the disappointment.

That’s why he’s here. He will work it out of me and then I won’t want him. He’s making me vomit out my feelings to stop craving him.

And then it starts. He must make his own hand hurt for how hard he goes at me. Gwen is right. I may not be able to sit for a while.

I can’t move a muscle. I just have to let go and let him give me everything.

It bursts like a dam, suddenly. The wanting and waiting and need for a stranger. I don’t know this person. How is he anything to me? My disappointment wells up and I open my mouth to scream. He shakes me to remind me not to make noise. His slaps slow. His hand rests on my backside, rubbing the sting. Then he slips his fingers down, down. It’s a tight fit since he’s got me locked down. I try to move, to open my legs to give him access. He pins me tighter and smacks me.

His fingers find my clit finally. He teases. I need to open my legs. I moan and receive a hard smack that hurts like hell. He slips his fingers down again and finds it waiting and swollen. I don’t move, though I want to. I almost can’t anyway.

He teases, then suddenly lets me go, shoving me off his lap.

I cry out as my bottom hits the floor. He’s on top of me in an instant, his dick nudging at the entrance to my body. He stops and I hear the condom wrapper. He resumes pushing into me until he is fully embedded, and I’m biting my lip again to stop my moans. I wiggle in lieu of making a noise, but the carpet is rough against my bottom. It burns with each thrust. I make a tiny sound. He slaps my hip.

Then he slides one huge thumb downward and finds my clit. I go off like a rocket. I can’t help the growling, screaming noises I make as the orgasm sends me out of my body and into a realm of pleasure that seems reserved for this man.

I wish he were mine. I know nothing of him, but I wish it anyway.

He lifts my legs over his shoulders and slides into me repeatedly, making pleasured sounds as he moves himself toward his own orgasm. He is using my body for his satisfaction and I don’t care. I’ve let go and gone completely into the sensation.

He comes with a low moan.

We lie on the floor. He pulls the blindfold off. I see his face, his eyes, watching me. He wonders if I’m all right. I can see it in his expression.

I nod. He gets up to toss the condom.

“Wait,” I say.

“No,” he says. He puts on a matching robe. “Forget me. You wouldn’t like me outside this room.”

“You don’t know that.”

He stares at me with no expression. “I’m not interested, Miss.” He blows me a kiss and walks out the door.

<>

I spend the next few weeks convincing myself it was just sex. And it _was_ just sex, though incredible. 

Yet, at the same time, I believe I have a connection to Kylo—he makes me let go, he takes me to another space inside myself. He takes me there when he is my plaything. He takes me when I am his.

He clearly doesn’t feel the same about me. Perhaps it was just sex for him.

And I slowly try to forget the feel of him, when I’m by myself, touching myself, thinking of him fucking me.

It’s just one of those things that happens sometimes. You find someone, something, see it far away, find it up closer in your face, and the world shifts around you.

I swear can feel him sometimes, somewhere, and I look around for him, wonder if he’s thinking of me. And, at my darkest moments, I realize I’m this person he fucked. He doesn’t want anything to do with me.

<>

Gwen calls me one night. I’m antsy, angry, home from a stupid date. Some asshole mansplained and condescended to me until I want to break something over his head. I’m spitting nails, raging, full of pent up fury.

Gwen gently pulls me out of my angry shell. “Come out. Dance it off.”

I know the band she mentions a little, a few songs. I’ll go if for nothing else than to get rid of my manic, fevered energy.

I walk into the dark surging crowd. I can’t find Gwen, though she is tall and blonde, and easily recognizable. I look everywhere among steaming bouncing bodies, dancing and enjoying the throb of the music. I hear the songs and feel the rhythm of the music, but I can’t dance yet. I want to find Gwen and bitch about my life—then maybe dance with her and whomever she’s with.

I look up at the balcony and scan the crowd to see if she is there. Gwen is nowhere.

Then I see someone standing, moving to the music slightly. His posture tickles the edge of my consciousness.

I suddenly know. I know the body, the movement, the stance. I know because I have seen every inch of him. I have felt him inside me, against me.

It is he. Standing in the balcony.

And I realize why Gwen called me. She has seen him here and she has facilitated this little get-together, just for me. If she were here, I’d kiss her.

I locate the stairs to the second level. If he is with friends, I don’t care. If he has a woman, I’ll knock her aside.

I roar toward him. I yank on his arm and spin him around. He jumps back on impact.

And sees me.

His lips form the word “you.”

I wind my arms around his neck and pull him down. His lips find mine, sliding in from my cheek. His tongue is in my mouth before I can think. Our teeth clink and I shove my hands in his hair to draw him closer.

He must be alone, or he would not kiss me this way. I wouldn’t care anyway, I want him so desperately.

He pulls away. “No,” he mouths.

I nod. “Yes.” I yell at the top of my lungs.

I grab his hand. He allows me to drag him along, down the stairs, along the side of the dance floor where the restrooms are located.

I shove him hard and he bounces against the wall. I tug at his shoulders for another kiss. He bends down and grabs my head with both hands. His thumbs are on my face, pressing my mouth open. He is on me, biting and plundering.

“Man,” I gasp between kisses. I clutch his head and fist his hair.

He pushes me away.

“No.”

“Yes. You’re mine.”

He stops for a second and looks at me, chest heaving, hair fluffed out from my hands. “You wouldn’t like me for real.”

“Let me decide that. Let me find out.” I shove myself against him.

Something breaks inside of him and he claws at me. He lifts me and shoves my back against the wall. His mouth is on mine again—it’s not nice and it’s not gentle. I don’t give a shit. I crave him.

His hands grip my ass and his fingers creep toward glorious places. He shields me in a corner next to a plant and yanks my leggings down in the back.

I groan, suddenly so hot for him, and I open my legs as far as I can. My leggings start to give: I can feel fabric begin to rip. His thick finger slides down into my suddenly sopping cunt. He pushes in, teasing me. Thank fuck this man’s fingers are long. He slides down further and finds my clit. I’m panting as he holds me pinned against the wall. I bury my face in his shoulder, completely focused where his finger lightly moves, just shy of what I need. I growl. He touches me harder. I feel it building, higher, climbing up, my face flushes, and one or two more passes will see it done. He stops and pulls his hand out of my leggings.

I want to kill him. He drops me, while I beat at his chest.

“Finish me.”

He licks his finger.

I hate this game. I hate it. He is trying to make me despise him. I reach out to smack him and he grabs my arm, twists it behind me, and shoves me face first against the wall. He’s not rough with me. Just firm. His body is up against mine and I feel his erection poking into my back.

“I said, you don’t want me.” He bites off his words rapidly. “It’s just sex. I’m not a nice person. I told Gwen to tell you, too. You wrote your article, got your money, and had two scenes with me. Let it go.”

“Tell me why.” I kick back with one leg and connect with a shin. He grunts and lets me go. I turn and glare at him, every inch of my body feels electric, full of pure static from his touch.

His hand rakes through his thick hair. “I’ve told you why.” He presses his lips together and shoots me an annoyed look.

“No, you said you _thought_ I wouldn’t like you because you’re not nice. What the fuck? What makes you think I’m nice? What makes you think I _like_ nice?” I stare at him. I challenge him to believe me. “You don’t get to make that determination without at least giving me a hearing.”

His eyes slide away. His profile is stern, unyielding. It’s hard to believe I topped this man and made him my plaything. I would do it again, if he let me. It doesn’t seem likely.

He comes to some sort of decision and nods crisply. “Fine.” He grabs my hand and pulls me through the club, past the dancers, past the bar, tugging and yanking. I stumble. He doesn’t stop. Someone watching us might think this race is against my will. It isn’t. I would go anywhere with him.

He stops at the bouncer’s tiny desk. “Pen,” he says to the big man sitting there. Kylo is a man of few words, it seems.

He exposes my wrist and writes on the sensitive part, pressing into my skin. It hurts. I bite my lips and make no noise, though he glances up to gauge my reaction. His eyes meet mine with something akin to approval.

“Good Kitten.” He leans in to whisper it and ghost a kiss on my cheek. Then he drops my arm and walks out. I stare at my wrist for a second. It’s a second too long.

I run after him but don’t see which way he has gone. He has disappeared into the night.

My wrist reads, “Ben Solo.”

I know him.

<>

Ben Solo is a man of mystery, according to Google. I’m annoyed and slam my laptop shut. I already know that much about him. He is a reclusive writer of horror stories, something of a local icon and celebrity. He allows no photos. He rarely goes out, apparently, and guards his privacy religiously.

Those who claim to have met Mr. Solo hedge in their praise of him. He is an amazing author, a genius, brilliant, reclusive, weird, intense… Then they stop and obviously don’t want to say it, but it’s there in their expressions. “Not a nice man.”

Of course, this Kylo person could be bullshitting me, pretending to be Ben Solo, author and recluse, since no one knows what he looks like.

It doesn’t matter. I have no way to contact him—even if he does work with Gwen at Chandrila Press, which is possible. Again, I tell myself to forget him. And I again I laugh at my own absurdity. I cannot forget.

<>

I’m at my day job, my desk job, at the University library, down in the archival book wing. There’s a big desk that I sit at most of the day, taking requests from patrons who need to view anything from historical records to genealogy. We have a few volumes in our public stacks, but most are in the back, preserved and hidden. So I trot back and forth with thick volumes and then re-shelve them when research is finished.

We have few patrons during the day, most of them come Saturdays and Sundays. Today is Monday; the wing is deserted.

I hear the door to our climate-controlled rooms whoosh open and someone tall walks in, wearing a black suit and tie. He has long, dark hair—soft waves that I have felt with my own hands. If this man is Ben Solo, he is here.

He nods at me as he strolls by, taking in the sight of our neat stacks of volumes. He slowly peruses books in the row nearby some tables and chairs. He plucks a book off a shelf and sits, facing me across the room. I watch him. He nods at me and opens the book. He is merely pretending to read, I’m guessing. This is a new game, but I don’t know what it is. He has certainly sought me out, since it’s unlikely he has reason to be here.

He lifts his eyes from the volume to see if I’m looking. I am. We lock eyes. We stare. He snaps the book shut, drops it on the table, and stands. He ambles over. I haven’t noticed his stride before. He walks like his dick is too big for those dress pants he’s wearing. It might, in fact, be—it’s too big for my little cunt. He has a bit of a pigeon-toed walk on one side, which only adds to his big dick swagger. I raise my eyes as he comes closer. He’s looking for a fight—but says he wants a book. He doesn’t.

He hands me a piece of paper with some nonsense written on it. It’s the name of a book detailing haunted locations in the area—an old volume that some aspiring ghost hunter wrote back in the day.

“I’ll need your ID.” My eyes never leave his.

He breaks eye contact first and slides his wallet out. He hands me the ID with two fingers, both of which have been inside me.

I look at it. Benjamin Organa Solo, it reads. He is in fact Ben Solo. It has an address on it.

“Is this address current?” I ask.

He gives me the ghost of a smirk. “Why don’t you come by and find out?”

I look up into his face. “I could. If you’d like.” I pause. “What’re you writing about?”

“Write down the address and I’ll tell you.”

I find a sticky note and pen. “Or should I write it on my arm instead?”

He ignores my smart-ass remark as I write. His only reaction is the tap of long fingers on my desk, as if he’s itching to use that hand on me.

His voice is pitched soft and deep when he speaks. “I’m writing a story about a demon who possesses a man and won’t leave him alone.”

I look up at him. “Is that so?”

“Yes,” he says. “It’s a feral female demon who comes after this poor man and haunts his dreams. She attacks him and sucks his life force out.”

“Through his dick?” I ask.

He doesn’t blink. “He struggles with her again and again.”

“Maybe he needs to get laid,” I offer.

“Maybe she needs to go back to hell.”

I ponder that for a moment. “Maybe he needs to grow a pair and quit being a chickenshit.”

“Maybe he’s not a nice person.”

“Maybe she is a right nasty bitch of a demon and isn’t afraid of him.”

He leans down. “Maybe she should be.”

I lay my head back, close my eyes, and snore at him, like he’s boring me to death. “Maybe he’s tiresome and scared to be an adult.”

He slams his hand down and it echoes in the empty room. “Maybe she needs to remember who she’s talking to…” He pauses. “Kitten.”

“Maybe she’s not afraid of his bullshit threats.” I pause as well. “Man.”

He frowns at me, lips tight.

“Stop running, Kylo,” I say, softly. “Or I will hunt you down, you monster.”

“Do it, feral demon. And I will tie you up and never let you leave.” He snatches up his license and strides out.

I’m okay with that idea.

<>

I drive myself over to Ben’s house after work. I have gone home to shower and put on casual clothes. I also bring dinner in case not-a-nice-man is hungry.

Ben’s home is a hulking Tudor mansion with a big circle driveway. A black Porsche is parked there. He opens the door before I can knock. He is indeed hungry. He takes the bag of food out of my hand and sets it on a table in the foyer. He bends down and tosses me over his shoulder. I cry out in surprise. I hang there, beating my fists on his back—just a little to let him know it’s me—as he carries me up a flight of stairs right into a massive bedroom with an equally large bed. He doesn’t break a sweat.

He drops me on the bed and covers my body with his, growling my name, calling me Kitten and demon and Rey. He covers my face and neck and hands with hot kisses and nibbles. He tears my clothes off systematically and fastens his lips to my breast. He bites my nipples and I squirm in pleasure and pain. I rake my hands through his hair and pull the hair on the back of his head—hard. He’s not ready for this mistreatment and roars. I have popped his lips free from my nipple.

He rolls me over on top of him. He is still fully dressed in that damn black suit. His belt buckle bites into my belly and I don’t give a shit. He swats me and I ride his leg, using it to rub my own clit. I smear his pants with my juice.

We tear and pull at his clothes, his tie ends up by itself around his neck, so I use it as a leash and make him come down to kiss me. I tug his neck, pulling him downward toward my cunt. “Eat me, Man,” I say.

He pulls the necktie off and winds it around my hands. He crawls up and ties it around a decoration on his headboard. I can get loose, but why would I want to?

I open my legs for him and let him edge the shit out of me. I love it, though I want to yank his hair every time he brings me close, so close, within a lick or two of coming, and then nuzzles my thigh or belly with his beard. I die. He lets me scream out my frustration.

He looks at me, eyes so bright. He grins. Then he laughs.

I am fully enchanted. I forget my throbbing clit for a moment.

This dour man with the biggest resting bitch face in the world is laughing. It is a wonderous laugh, full of mischief and light. He has dimples that I’ve never seen before. He is lovely, transcendent in his masculine beauty.

I am his.

“Man,” I whisper. I can’t stop myself. And I want to touch him, but I want to stay tied up as his plaything, too. I can’t decide. So I don’t move.

He chuckles. “My Kitten. I love to watch you grit your teeth in frustration. I love to make you howl like the feral fucking demon you are. I love to play with you.”

I smile back, all kinds of toothy. “If you let me go, I’ll suck your dick until you can’t see straight.”

He looks at me with a regretful expression. “Now, you know I can’t do that, Kitten.” His eyes are alight. “You would punish me. I have you right where I want you. You’re mine and I’m going to fuck the life out of you with you all tied up so you can’t hurt anyone.”

“Who’s the real demon here, Benjamin Organa Solo?”

He nuzzles my neck. “I am.”

True to his word, he sets a punishing pace, ramming into me hard. I meet his thrusts full on and screech at him. If he gets near me, I snap and bite, so he holds himself up with his strong arms and fucks away. He touches my clit with his thumb, fully inside me, until I catch up. It doesn’t take long. He isn’t aiming to tease; he’s aiming to make me come. And I do. He watches me. I lock eyes with him and stay with him until the rich, raw sensation overcomes me and my head snaps back. 

He moves his hips rapidly in a rolling motion, and I can tell he’s close. I wrap my legs around his hips and pull my hands out of the tie. I grab his ass and squeeze. He looks at me as he is distracted from his orgasm.

“Bad Kitten,” he grunts. He starts again.

I pinch him.

“Fuck,” he yells as he loses his stride again. “Demon girl, stop it.”

I giggle.

He starts to move again, and I urge him on. I can tell he is hesitant. He’s waiting for me to stop him. I don’t. He starts to moan in my ear.

I smack the living shit out of his ass.

He shouts at me, pulls himself out, and rolls me over. Of course, he blisters me, yelling at the top of his lungs about crazy demon feral girls out to torment him.

I laugh and shout at him, banging the bed with my fists. The spanking hurts but it’s so worth it.

He hitches up my backside and finds his way back inside me. I’m in a position to do nothing to him, so he finishes himself off with such a yell that I think he’s hurt himself.

He hasn’t. I turn my head to the side to see him pull off the condom and dispose of it. He comes back to lie next to me. He has nowhere to go.

We stare at each other. I reach out and touch his face. He looks wary and afraid.

“You don’t scare me, Ben. You better be okay with my being around because I’m not leaving.”

He nods, eyes wary. “You might not like me.”

“Why not?”

“I’m a recluse who writes all the time.”

“Except when you’re fucking me.”

“People don’t like me much.”

I touch his lips and he kisses my fingers. “What people?” I ask.

“My family. I don’t have many friends,” he replies, simply, as though the pain isn’t there. I can see it, though, rising out of him, choking him.

“Well, if you’re a recluse, by definition, you don’t have many friends. You could change that, you know.”

He sighs. “I can never decide if I want to change it or not. It’s easier to be alone.”

“You don’t have to decide right now,” I say, scrambling up from the bed. “Let’s eat instead.”

And I feed him. I feed him that night. Then breakfast, dinner again…and so on. Until we are one, demon, kitten, Kylo, monster, Ben and Rey Solo.

<>

I learn that Benjamin Organa Solo needs a lot of solitude to write down the stories he finds inside his head. He’s not a recluse entirely by choice but by necessity. I’m the more social of us two, but he doesn’t mind my outings as long as I come home to our warm bed and fun games.

His editor (and mine) Gwen is one of our closest friends. When I deem it absolutely necessary, Ben will drag his fine ass out to have dinner with Gwen and whomever she chooses to bring along. He won’t admit it, but he enjoys these social times—though I hear grumpy noises whenever we have plans to go to a party or dinner. I tell him his complaints are boring and he’s repeating himself.

He is a deep, dark flower, who blooms for me. No one needs to know him. No one needs to see him. In the end, he is a thoughtful, caring, loving man, who was told he was wrong and dark and bad. And believed it.

Not anymore.


End file.
